


Half Hope

by MrsCaulfield



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Getting Together, Light Angst, Love Confessions, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pining Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley, References to Jane Austen, crowley basically gets hooked onto austen novels and aziraphale bears the brunt of it, do not be fooled by summary this is actually a pining aziraphale fic, no prior knowledge on jane austen necessary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:07:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23792839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsCaulfield/pseuds/MrsCaulfield
Summary: How does one hope to convey the depth of feelings built up over millennia to an angel who has most likely heard all the words in the English language? Crowley attempts to find out by studying some of Aziraphale's beloved pieces of literature.-Basically just a fic full of mutual pining, misunderstandings, and Crowley endowed with the ability to quote Austen on command.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 29
Kudos: 160





	Half Hope

**Author's Note:**

> This silly idea was born out of my recent Jane Austen marathon, and it wouldn't leave me alone so I had to type all this out for eight hours straight and now, at almost 5AM, I can finally SLEEP.

Crowley hasn’t left his flat in a week.

Not that this was an unusual occurrence, but usually under such a circumstance one can find him dozing off in his bed, cramped up in a stiff position with his hair and fingernails untrimmed and pyjamas wrinkled as they had been for the past several days that he’d been in deep slumber, because what _else_ was a retired demon to do? And he would have happily done so again were it not for that bloody professor. Yes, it was all that professor’s fault. Dr. Colin Andrews, professor of classics or… something—who had oh so gracefully stumbled into Aziraphale’s path a few weeks ago and had been on chummy terms with since.

And it wasn’t even like a jealousy thing. Nah, that left a bad taste in his mouth. He was perfectly fine with Aziraphale going out and making friends (far be it for him to deprive him of it, really). It’s more that he couldn’t stand seeing them converse so smoothly about something that Crowley couldn’t relate to. Because apparently, out of literally all the knowledge in the universe that was most likely etched into the angel’s head by now, both Aziraphale and that professor had a fondness for nineteenth century literature.

You know. The same nineteenth century that Crowley decided to sleep over after that whole holy water debacle (he’s past that now, no need to think about that now).

It’s been eight months since the world didn’t end, and his relationship with Aziraphale had been… nothing to complain about, really. It was great. But it was also agonizing. Considering everything they’ve been through, he was more certain now that he and Aziraphale were teetering on the precipice of a millennia-long dance, one that led down to that terrifying space of the _unknown_ (or maybe not so much the unknown as it was the _cannot-be-named_ ). Crowley dared to think they were more than friends, though how he’d push their relationship onto that terrifying _cannot-be-named_ he knew not. On more than one occasion he’d wished he could just put it all out there and see how Aziraphale would react, but one can’t blame him for being terrified of trying again after the centuries he’d spent getting rejected over and over again by that same person. Crowley was someone who always tried to be cool.

As it was though, it is a truth universally acknowledged, based on past experience, that Crowley was shit at saying words.

So he was gonna go with the next best thing which was to communicate with Aziraphale using books. Hence, his current situation.

Just to set things straight, the last time that he saw Aziraphale, he hadn’t meant to forget to leave a proper goodbye then disappear for an entire week. How could he have expected that he’d be caught up with reading each of Jane Austen’s novels? It was so off brand for him. He hadn’t been tempted to read any other book before, so the very fact that he’d just spent an entire week in his flat without eating or sleeping (the former not really his preference, the latter something he’d always indulged in—neither really necessary for a literal demon), flipping page after page of romance-imbibed satirical masterpieces was in itself a mystery.

It just seemed so unfair how everyone in these books found it so easy to express themselves well. Not that it should’ve come as a surprise to him. From what little he can recall of the nineteenth century before his proverbial nap, people were infinitely more apt to express themselves back then. The ways they described their peers were downright brutal, especially within the _ton_. No detail was too small to be noticed and gossiped about. Still, it was downright injustice that even characters like the supposedly socially inept Mr. Darcy could churn out words like _“You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you”_ in the heat of the moment. What a fucking scam.

There was a knock on his door. Crowley startled at the sound, hardly expecting anyone to be around to visit him. Probably someone who’d gotten lost and got the wrong flat. He ignored it.

The knocking came twice more. “Um, Crowley? Are you in there? Please, my dear, I am dreadfully worried.”

Oh shit. What was Aziraphale doing here? He tried to speak, but found his throat dry from lengthy disuse and swallowed. “Come on in, angel!” He called out.

With a quick whiff of a miracle, the door gave way to Aziraphale’s entrance. What went through the angel’s mind as he processed the scene before him one can probably imagine. Excepting the solitary throne and desk, the flat was in a solid untouched state. Crowley, in a black shirt and loose pantaloons, lounged in his seat surrounded by several books, and a copy of what appeared to be _Sense and Sensibility_ clutched guiltily in his hands.

“My dear, what—” Aziraphale took a deep breath, “— _exactly_ are you doing?”

Crowley blinked. “Reading?”

“You were gone for a _week!_ ” Aziraphale took heavy strides toward him, eyes quickly perusing the other novels on the table. “You didn’t think to inform me where you were going, or even call! And here you are, _of all things_ , reading Jane Austen!”

Crowley looked at his soft hair, glowing in the afternoon light, and the tired look in his eyes said more than he needed to say out loud. “What did you think I did?” he asked.

Aziraphale released a resigned sigh. “What was I supposed to think, Crowley? I thought Downstairs had gotten to you!”

Crowley raised a brow.

“Somehow!” The angel supplied. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. You’d be doing the same if I were to disappear without notice.”

Crowley readily agreed. In all honesty, he might’ve been worse. “I’m sorry.”

At this, Aziraphale softened. He looked at Crowley for a long time, as if assessing whether he was really there. The relief that showed on his face was gradually increasing. “In any case,” he said, “I am glad nothing of the sort has happened.”

The guilt settled on him fully now. He hadn’t meant to be gone that long, and he didn’t expect Aziraphale would be this worried about it. “I’ll make it up to you. Let’s go out for dinner tomorrow.”

Aziraphale beamed. Crowley hoped that all was alright again.

* * *

Crowley arrived at the bookshop a few hours earlier than the appointed time (Aziraphale never seemed to mind). When he entered, Dr. Andrews was there again, over at the counter conversing with Aziraphale.

As soon as he crossed the entryway, Aziraphale stopped talking and turned to look at him, and the way he lit up—that certain way he’d seen several times before whenever Aziraphale suddenly and unexpectedly spotted him in the room, could sustain him for a couple hundred years. As it was, he was dreadfully relieved they didn’t need to spend that much time apart anymore. “Hey, angel. Just coming in for a quick kip. Don’t mind me.”

“Of course,” replied Aziraphale. His eyes trained back to his conversation partner, as if he’d briefly forgotten he was there. “Dr. Andrews, you remember my good friend Crowley.”

The professor turned to him, smiling tightly. “Yes. Hello.”

Crowley nodded in return. The two appeared to be in some passionate conversation about… well, as far as Crowley was concerned, it was probably something to do with books. “Don’t let me keep you.” He gave a short wave and headed to the direction of the shop’s backroom, where the leather sofa already beckoned him for sleep.

Right before he was out of earshot, he heard Dr. Andrews return to talk to Aziraphale. “I was wondering. Tonight there’ll be a quaint little poetry reading session at this cafe I favour. Sometimes the poems are really bad, though. May I request your company? We can go right after you close up shop.”

“Well, that sounds enticing. But I’m afraid I have prior engagements tonight, though I do wish that the poems tonight will be splendid and suited to your taste.”

Crowley sensed the presence of faint angelic miracle as he said it. Of course, there was the angel always being too nice to his friends—too nice for this world. It made him smile as he disappeared into the backroom.

Aziraphale waited as the hours ticked by, and when it finally came time to close up, he did so happily. He went to wake up Crowley from his nap, and when they were ready to go, was utterly shocked when Crowley said, “The professor fancies you.”

Aziraphale watched him as he put on his coat and smoothed down its sides. “What?”

“If you wanted to go, you didn’t have to decline on my account,” said Crowley, nonchalant. As if what he was saying didn’t at all weigh heavily on Aziraphale’s heart. “We could always reschedule.”

Crowley was averting his gaze, and he took it to mean that he wasn’t as nonchalant as he tried to appear. “But it never crossed my mind to accept,” he said earnestly. “I missed you. I want to spend time with you again.”

“Ngrk,” was the sound that came from his companion. He glanced at Aziraphale almost shyly, which the angel found most endearing.

“Is it really so difficult for you to believe that I would prefer your company to anyone else’s?” Surely Crowley already knew this, given their rich history together, the thousands of times they had their lives intertwined with one another.

“Nah,” Crowley said, putting on his scarf and heading out the door. “You’re too generous to trifle with me.”

The words rang in Aziraphale’s head, echoed a hundred times over. He frowned, following Crowley out to his parked car. Crowley was resolutely not looking at him as he entered on the driver’s side. Stunned, Aziraphale took to the passenger’s seat, jamming the seatbelt in place before turning to Crowley, huffing. “Did you just… _quote_ Jane Austen? No, wait—quote _Mr. Darcy?_ ”

Crowley shot him a grave look, and for a moment Aziraphale worried he’d offended him, before his face broke out into a small grin, mirth enlivening his features. “Doesn’t suit me at all, does it?” Crowley said lightly. And it was lucky that he meant the statement to be rhetorical as he turned his eyes back to the road and started up the car. Had Aziraphale been compelled to reply, there was no telling what he would’ve said, as he mused that the image of the handsome and strikingly commanding Mr. Darcy suited Crowley much more than he’d like to admit.

* * *

It was four minutes until closing. Aziraphale waited contentedly, though for the most part he was eager to settle down with a glass of wine and a great deal of conversation with Crowley, who at the moment was perched on the seat near Aziraphale’s worktable, fumbling on his smartphone. It had been a trying day, with seven different customers insisting on buying books and Aziraphale needing to send away promptly. Was it too much to ask that people refrain from buying books in his bookshop?

He looked impatiently at his pocketwatch, when the bell above the door dinged. He looked up to glare at the person who so rudely came in just as he was closing, and was surprised to see Dr. Andrews walking up to him.

“Dr. Andrews, to what do I owe the pleasure?” he said, biting down the stiffness in his tone. The professor had been to his shop several times before, whenever Aziraphale had asked him to procure some vital relict of literature for him, but he didn’t remember having any further business with him. “I don’t think I’ve asked you to procure any more books for me. I’m quite set, thanks to you.”

Dr. Andrews gave him a confident smile. “I know. This time, I didn’t come for business.”

There was a twinkle in his eye that made Aziraphale a little wary. On the ethereal plane, he found himself extending a bit of miraculous power throughout the room, sensing for Crowley’s presence. He was still there, crouched on the seat, Aziraphale already knew. But he kept it up a little longer, lingering on that ball of demonic energy now unconsciously responding to his aura. “Oh?”

“I like you, Mr. Fell. There’s a pop-up exhibit at the university on Thomas Moore’s works and I want you to go with me, as my date.”

There were several things that occurred to Aziraphale over the next second.

First, that it appeared that Crowley was correct in that the professor had fancied him. He never saw it coming.

Second, that he really was more of a Lord Byron fan and cared little for Moore.

And third, that the demonic figure he’d been sensing had stood up from his seat.

Dr. Andrews looked expectantly at him with that big grin plastered on his face. There was something in his manner that Aziraphale found displeasing—as if he already knew that a ‘yes’ was to come to his inquiry.

“Well,” he swallowed, “As flattered as I am by your request, I’m afraid I must decline. I am much too old to be gallivanting around on dates,” he tried to say with warmth.

Dr. Andrews frowned. “You can’t be that much older than I am, don’t be ridiculous.” Aziraphale would’ve laughed were it not inappropriate at the moment. “Surely you can’t be that dense. I only found ways to go here so many times so that I can keep seeing you.”

Aziraphale was struck. All this time, he never suspected a thing. He thought Dr. Andrews to be a well-meaning friend. He struggled to remain composed, but his discomfort was growing by the minute. “Well I, on the other hand, have never considered the notion. And while I have always valued your company and found our talks most stimulating to the mind, I have never thought to pursue a… _romantic_ connection with you!”

He hardened his gaze, willing it to be made clear that he had no part in encouraging whatever delusions the professor might have had.

“I didn’t expect anything from you at first either.” Dr. Andrews sneered, his pride obviously hurt by Aziraphale’s stern rejection. “But after everything I’ve done for you, I thought you would have at least granted me that merit.”

Anger flared within Aziraphale—anger mixed with confusion, for he hadn’t known the professor to be capable of such hurtful speech. “I’m afraid I must ask you to leave,” he said grimly.

Dr. Andrews, however, showed no signs of leaving. He knew himself to be a handsome, respectable, and well-mannered man and it was obvious to Aziraphale that he was not used to being rejected. Aziraphale wanted no more than for this conversation to be over and forgotten, to curl up in his couch and unwind with a good dinner, but it appeared that Dr. Andrews still had more to say, and he waited in dread for it when Crowley, having slipped to his side without his notice, slung an arm around his shoulders, tipped his shades down the bridge of his nose, and stared down at the professor with chilling serpentine eyes.

“I believe the angel told you to scram, _pest._ ” He hissed, and with it came a burst of demonic energy that sent Dr. Andrews hightailing off to the road as fast as his terrified wits would carry him.

There was enough chill in the room to unsettle even Aziraphale a little, even though he knew there was no reason to be, for it had come from the person he trusted the most in the world. He had no doubt the professor won’t be attempting any further return to his shop.

“Thank you for that.” Aziraphale attempted to weave more force into his words, so that they would properly reflect the gratitude he felt, but it still came out tired.

“You okay? You don’t usually need any help sending customers running for the hills. D’you wanna talk about it?”

Aziraphale knew that Crowley had heard every part of their conversation, yet he still cared to ask whether he would like to talk about it. It wasn’t always obvious, but Crowley always treated him with so much delicacy that made it impossible not to love him any further than he already did. He shook his head, wanting to just forget about the conversation that had taken place. “I’m alright.”

Nodding, Crowley pulled away and grabbed his phone. “I’ll order takeout. Does Indian sound good?”

That night, as they filled themselves up with comforting food and a bottle of Bordeaux, Aziraphale found himself gazing at Crowley, who sat on the carpeted floor, tearing off a piece of naan. Aziraphale, who was himself half-drunk on wine and half-lying down on the sofa, propped his head up on his fist as he said, “I think I should’ve been nicer to Dr. Andrews.”

Crowley’s face turned sour at the prospect. “Nah, you gave the bastard what he deserved. It’s the wine talking.”

Aziraphale shook his head. He wasn’t drunk enough yet to have lost any of his usual reasoning, he was just a bit light-headed and a bit more loose-tongued. “Well, not nice exactly, but maybe less rude.”

“You don’t owe him anything, Aziraphale.” Crowley had taken off his coat, and he hung there with a shirt that clung tightly to the planes of his chest and his long legs sprawled out before him. He ran a hand through his already mussed auburn hair. _Heaven_ , he was unfairly beautiful.

Aziraphale couldn’t stop looking at him. When trying to recollect uncomfortable memories, he always found it reassuring when he could look at Crowley. “He told me that I ‘should’ve at least granted him that merit’.”

Crowley snorted derisively. “Yeah, see, he was trying to win you over with his good deeds. It was never going to work, obviously.” He took a swig of his wine.

Aziraphale shot him a confused look, so Crowley hurried to gulp down his drink to explain further. “You’re an _angel_ , angel. By design, you’re the paragon of merit.”

Aziraphale made a few protests to that statement, as it was questionable at best, but Crowley shook it all off. “It’s not by equality of merit that you can be won. _That_ is out of the question.”

Another set of words that rung through the halls of Aziraphale’s labyrinthine mind. He’s heard them before. With amusement he remarked, “You seem quite fond of quoting Austen off the fly now, my dear.”

Crowley appeared unbothered by his teasing. He smiled up at the angel. “Next time you see him, _if_ you see him, tell him: It is he who sees and worships your merit the strongest, he who loves you most devotedly, that has the best right to a return.”

The words bore down on him, clutching at his airways. He tried to catch up with his thoughts, flashing rapidly in sequence, fiercest among them the memory of a bombed down church, and the feel of grazing hands as he was handed a case filled with blasted prophecy books. How Crowley looked back then, as he avoided Aziraphale’s gratitude, as the voice of _‘Lift home?’_ sounded out to him, staked claim onto his heart for an eternity since.

Crowley, at present, stuffed a large piece of naan into his mouth, chewed thoughtfully, and said, “You know, I use to not like this. But I think I’m getting attached to it now.”

Aziraphale, who was still stuck on Crowley’s previous spiel and not having heard this more recent statement at all, ducked his head, sheepish, behind his wineglass and whispered, “I agree.”

* * *

They spent their day off in Crowley’s flat. After the world didn’t end, Crowley thought it most fitting that they be caught up with all the movies they never got to watch whilst they were too busy floundering in worthless panic over how Warlock would turn out. Aziraphale offered to get plates for their food (not that Crowley planned on eating much. It was really more just a courtesy).

And it was there that Aziraphale saw it, as he opened a couple of cupboards in Crowley’s kitchen. Crowley had forgotten it was even still there.

“ _Crowley._ ” He was up from his seat before Aziraphale could even call out. He was at the angel’s side the very next moment.

“Yeah, I’m sorry,” was the only thing he could think to say.

Aziraphale held in his hands the tartan thermos, grudgingly given by him before, and only now holding a pint of memories they both rather not remember. “I didn’t know you still had this.”

“Went to great pains to obtain it, didn’t I?” He watched Aziraphale’s face carefully. Perhaps he shouldn’t have worded that out loud. “Seemed senseless to just throw it away.”

At Aziraphale’s continuing silence, Crowley took the thermos from him. “Look, let me take that off your hands. Why don’t you get back to your seat, angel? I can take it from here.”

Aziraphale nodded wordlessly and complied.

To Crowley, it may have been nothing more than a trifling memory, but to Aziraphale it jilted him further to remember the fight from which all memories concerning the thermos had borne from—that time at St. James’s, when Crowley asked him for holy water.

It had terrified him, the thought of handing the person he loved the most in the universe what was essentially a suicide pill. Even back then, he knew that what Crowley told him made sense. He needed a way to protect himself from what punishment their Arrangement had certainly warranted from both ethereal and occult forces. But he could not contrive it from himself to consider a world without Crowley. Billions of creatures—heavenly, demonic, human, and beyond—he had encountered in his long immortal life, and yet a world without Crowley might as well be a world without anyone at all.

Crowley settled down on the sofa beside him, propping his feet up on the coffee table and playing the film he’d settled on on the screen. The pictures moved before Aziraphale’s eyes, yet he sat there uncomprehending. What had it been like for Crowley? Had he been just as upset, just as _lonely_ as Aziraphale was, when they didn’t see each other for the next eighty years?

No, of course not. Crowley had said so himself. ‘ _I have lots of other people to fraternize with_ _’._

This, above all, was what haunted him the most.

Crowley paused the film. “You alright there, angel?” Seeing that Aziraphale was well and truly distressed, he added, “Tell me what’s bothering you,” in a softened tone.

“It’s just…” Aziraphale didn’t know how to phrase this in a way that didn't seem like he was demanding much from him, for Crowley certainly didn’t owe him that loyalty. But he had to know. Crowley was the only being that he had cared for, _yearned_ for in that respect. He connected with humans, yes, but none of them came anywhere near his regard for Crowley—a regard that spanned hundreds of human lifetimes. At this point, he was beyond reason. He _had_ to know whether he struck Crowley in any similar way. “Were you ever attached to anyone else?”

“What do you mean?” Crowley asked patiently.

“You told me, back then, that you had other people to fraternize with.” Crowley winced at the words, but Aziraphale didn’t mean to chide him with them. “Well, I figured, you might have felt the stakes were too high. Was it because you had other friends you didn’t want Hell to know about? Some humans, maybe? I’m just genuinely curious as to why you’ve never mentioned it to me…” He trailed off.

From the way that Crowley was looking at him, it appeared that the demon was wondering at how he could even ask that question. As if Aziraphale should've already known the answer. The angel waited expectantly for his reply.

“Aziraphale.” Crowley’s gaze on him was so tender, so filled with understanding, and Aziraphale knew not what to do with it at all. He lifted a hand to cradle Aziraphale’s face, thumb swiping affectionately over his cheek. “Dare not say that man forgets sooner than woman.”

And with that, Crowley settled back in his seat and unpaused the film, and within seconds was back to his usual cool composure.

To the common observer, this should have made little sense. Neither he nor Crowley was, after all, man or woman. But Aziraphale, with all his scholarly prowess, with his great mastery of English literature—for all its good and its bad, knew that it was the words that immediately followed that phrase which hung plainly in the air between them, such that Crowley may as well have just spoken them out loud. _Dare not say that man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death._

_I have loved none but you._

What could he mean by it? Did Crowley mean for him to take the words literally, or were they simply a metaphor for Crowley’s faithfulness to their friendship? In that respect, Aziraphale knew that much credit was due him, for throughout the entirety of their long companionship Crowley had been steadfast, even when Aziraphale outright declined and rebuked their having any connection. He felt he ought to never be forgiven for it. And yet a part of him was rejoicing, already welcoming the literal interpretation with open arms without a need for further approbation. It was tempting, for the words were taken directly from Aziraphale’s personal favourite of Austen’s works—a tale of forbidden love, of a love that remained and grew steadfast over a long period of separation, that it took all his strength not to lean in and kiss Crowley then and there, lest he be proven completely wrong.

Blast it all! If he was able to decipher a book of Agnes Nutter’s prophecies with little trouble, how could he be so uncertain about _this_?

Crowley laughed from a particular scene from the film, and as Aziraphale continued to look on at him, he knew that the real reason why he was uncertain, was because he loved Crowley too much, that the magnitude of his affection could have warped his hopes of Crowley ever returning it.

Crowley turned to look at him and, noticing that Aziraphale had been looking at him, pressed a soft kiss to his temple. His eyes (in full view for now, as they rarely were) so filled with great tenderness and satisfaction that Aziraphale couldn’t resist sinking into him, his arms wrapped around Crowley’s waist, his head fitting perfectly on the space between Crowley’s neck and shoulder. Crowley reacted so smoothly, so naturally. He readily accepted the embrace, pressing Aziraphale closer with both his arms for a bit, before settling down with a single arm wrapped around his frame, his hand trailing up every so often to twine with his hair.

Aziraphale thought deeply, as they remained in that position for the duration of the film, that this must be what it was to be in half agony, half hope.

* * *

Aziraphale could not help but notice, over the next few days, that something was bothering Crowley. Loath as he was to admit it, the demon had become more quiet and less willing to share with Aziraphale what he was thinking about. They still hung out, quite often now, nearly every day, but in each of their meetings there was something lacking with the usual ease of their conversation. He mulled over this as they entered the Bentley, having just had dinner at the Ritz over which 98% of the time was spent with Aziraphale talking. He couldn’t help it. Once he started on a subject, it was difficult for him to stop, and he had almost forgotten that Crowley barely made any response.

Aziraphale addressed him with an invitation for some wine back at the bookshop, which the demon politely declined, saying he wanted to turn in early for the night. The car lurched to life and they began their journey, a dismayed Aziraphale perched glumly on his seat, hands folded on his lap.

It was, of course, not a difficult problem to answer. Crowley had gotten bored with him. And how could he not? They both knew that of the two of them, it was Aziraphale who’d always longed for a more sedentary lifestyle. That before he’d settled in Soho, he always clung to any essence of a home. Aziraphale was content to live in a place that housed all his books as well as all the restaurants he cared about. But all this time, all those had been Aziraphale’s wants, not Crowley’s.

Crowley must be begging for some adventure—to feel the true release of having done away with Hell’s clutches on him. This was something that Aziraphale could not give him. But Crowley probably tried, when he vanished for a week without telling Aziraphale, to get away from him. Yet Aziraphale had been too needy, had overreacted so as to be utterly convinced that being abducted by Hell was the only explanation for it. He granted himself too much credit. And here was Crowley, politely turning him away again.

He would not be selfish any longer. He owed it to Crowley, for all he has done for him, at least this. He cleared his throat. “Crowley, is there something you might want to say to me?”

On Crowley’s part, however, the ‘something’ that Aziraphale had been thinking of flew completely over his head. He gripped the steering wheel. Hard. The past few days, he’d been on edge. He thought he’d left the angel, intelligent as he was, enough clues by now. But for some reason, no change had taken place. Had he gone about this all wrong? Did Aziraphale not actually feel any romantic feelings for him? He shook his head. No, it can’t be. At least he hoped not. But if on the off chance that Aziraphale really didn’t feel the same way, then what on earth had they been doing for the past several months?!

And great, now the angel had _noticed_ his distress. If Aziraphale was onto him, then there was no use trying to keep it a secret any longer. It won’t be long before he actually figured out what Crowley was really up to. He should just blurt it out. But again, he was shit at words, so he did what he usually did. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.” He _stalled_.

“You’ve been awfully quiet lately. I can feel it, you know. You slipping away.” It pained Aziraphale to say it, and yet say it he must. “I’d appreciate it if you were more honest with me.”

Crowley weighed his next words very carefully. One misstep and the angel could be sent jumping off this car once again. “I’m sorry. It’s… Not exactly a thing that I find easy to talk about, as you well know.”

Aziraphale nodded. “I understand.” He knew Crowley had never been good with words, and so Aziraphale needed to give him that avenue so he can open up. The sooner Crowley said it, the better. He can deal with the pain later. “But you must know that whatever it is you need, I am at your service. As a friend, Crowley, I will listen to whatever it is you are feeling.”

“As a _friend._ ” Crowley scoffed. Well, Aziraphale certainly needed no more prompting before rubbing it in. He’d been a fool, of course, but he’d wallow in it later. In the heat of the moment, he added: “That, I fear is a word—”

“Will you _stop_ that!” Aziraphale snapped, jumping up in his seat.

“Stop what?”

“Your sudden obsession with quoting Austen! Really, Crowley, this is hardly a good time for it.” Aziraphale crossed his arms over his chest, huffing.

Crowley’s heart sank. “Sorry. I didn’t… That is, I never meant for those words to be so displeasing to you.”

They had reached the bookshop. Here it was, Aziraphale’s ticket for a way out. He prepared for it, the angel angrily stepping out of the vehicle. This time, who knows how long it would take to repair their friendship again? Without meddling heavenly and hellish affairs to force them to work together again, what excuse could Crowley give to keep being in Aziraphale’s presence?

“You of all people should know,” Aziraphale spoke stiffly, “how very far those words were from displeasing me. You need not be this cruel. You do not need to toy with my feelings.”

Toy with his… What on earth was he talking about? Did he really think that Crowley meant to tell him all those things just to toy with his emotions? Hadn’t he already known that the feeling was mutual?

“Angel,” he sighed, struggled to put his vocal chords back together to form a sentence. “I think we’ve been speaking two different conversations here. Just enlighten me, _what_ is it that you think I ought to say?”

“That you’re tired of me!” Aziraphale exclaimed petulantly. Must he really be forced to say it first? Crowley was being needlessly cruel. “I know you to be too kind to say it to me, but I had hoped that by opening it up, you can be induced to say it without any malice on either of our parts. There!” He looked out of the window, feeling Crowley’s incredulous gaze sticking to him.

“Don’t be an idiot, Aziraphale. You’re way too smart for that.” The idea to him was so ridiculous, he thought as he looked over at the angel, not sure where exactly to _look._ There was so much of him to take in, he could fill up Crowley’s life with little surprises for centuries still.

“Then what am I to make of your behaviour over the past few days?”

“That if I had purposely been toying with your feelings, _angel_ , then I wouldn’t have bothered to read at all. You know perfectly well it’s never been my thing.”

Aziraphale begrudgingly looked at him, guard still up. “ _Why_ then, when you had thousands to choose from, would you happen to choose the quotes that are the most—” Aziraphale stopped here, his rapidly firing brain suddenly making the connection across all the little scenarios that had passed. Crowley regarded him with a raised brow, waiting.

All the wind had been knocked out of Aziraphale’s chest. He gasped for a breath he didn’t even need. “Proposals.” He turned to Crowley, who’d now grown grimly silent. “You… It wasn’t random at all. Everything that you had quoted were from passages of _love making_.”

Crowley coloured all over from his face down to his neck, his hands scrambled over his lap. “You know that term has a _wildly_ different connotation nowadays.” He coughed awkwardly.

“Don’t try to derail the topic.” There was still a bit of his guard up, but he was receptive now. Aziraphale spoke softly. “Please tell me why, my dear, why do you tell me these things?”

“Because, angel.” Crowley steeled himself. _Here it goes_. He gazed at his companion, the sole light in his ever so fucked up life. So kind, so clever, so _beautiful_ was he, that Crowley couldn’t phrase his words in any way that would have been enough for the angel, but here he was to have a solid go at it anyway. “I cannot make speeches.”

Aziraphale looked confused. He waited. And waited. Then, a smile broke out on the angel’s face—small first, wary. Then, with the increase of dawning comprehension began to take over a beaming happiness that reflected beyond this dimension. Crowley felt his happiness—his _relief_ —extending out to the ethereal plane as the angel reached over, taking Crowley's hand in his. “Continue, darling.” Crowley let out a soft whimper.

For a moment, Crowley trembled, quite overcome. Aziraphale urged him silently, sending him all the comfort through their linked hands. “Perhaps if I…” Crowley trailed off, shook his head. It appeared to him that the demon, in that one second, had made an irreparable decision. He glanced off to the side, and with greater resolve went back to gazing at the angel, much closer than he had been before. Aziraphale melted into him. Leaned into that alluring gaze. Crowley smiled. “If I loved you less I might be able to talk about it more.”

Aziraphale scarcely knew how to measure his delight in hearing the words that might have been uttered a thousands times over, yet to him at the moment sounded entirely new, laced with all the promises he dared not allow himself to hope for.

He brought up his other hand to clasp onto Crowley’s nape and whispered, “Then perhaps you can do with a great deal _less_ talking, dearest." Propelled with sudden confidence, he lowered his gaze to Crowley's mouth.

Crowley dipped in to close the distance between them.

It was a tenderness, a most alluring comfort and reassurance that soothed down to his very essence. Their mouths glided with the precariousness of apprehensive, yet much welcomed loving. His hands tangled into Crowley's hair, aiming to hold him in place. The demon, for his part, seemed to have other ideas. He deepened the kiss, pressing Aziraphale with increasing urgency. His hands, never anything but gentle in the entire time the angel had known him, pushed on his shoulders until he was pressed up against the window. Pleasantly stunned, a guttural moan escaped Aziraphale's lips. His own hands tugged on Crowley's tie as the demon's hot tongue slipped past his parted lips, and met his with reverent caress. He could not believe how obtuse he had been to think that there was anything more right than _this,_ how close he had been to giving it all up.

The sound of their breathing was heavy in the close quarters of the car. Much as Aziraphale was delighted with it all, Crowley's sunglasses dug into his nose, and he'd been compelled to draw back a bit. Crowley whined at the loss, causing the soft chuckle to arise from Aziraphale's glistening swollen lips. He took off the offending frames. Crowley looked at him with immense trust and vulnerability that could only have resulted from a relationship as dear as all they'd been through.

Aziraphale sighed contentedly, his hand absently grazing over the grooves of Crowley's exposed collarbone. “I don’t think I’ll ever have the words to describe how much I love you either," he whispered.

A goofy grin was Crowley’s response. “So it’s good then that we took the words right out of another person’s mouth. Well, _pen_.”

Aziraphale gave him a final peck. “Shall we go inside now?”

Crowley looked apprehensively at him. He was happy, yes, but it was all so new, that there were still a few reservations. “What now, angel?”

Aziraphale was confident they’d smooth it all out eventually. “Well, my dear, I believe you’ll now need to ask for my parents’ consent,” he replied seriously.

They burst into a long fit of giggling, too drunk on each other’s love to stop. They went to the bookshop that night, talked as they used to and drank wine as they used to. For what great change was there to be expected, when they had always been a hair’s breadth away from acting madly in love?

It was all that either of them could have hoped for, and all that either of them would build on for the rest of eternity that they could share.

* * *

Quotes used:

_You are too generous to trifle with me._ — **Pride and Prejudice, Ch. 58**

_It is not by equality of merit that you can be won. That is out of the question. It is he who sees and worships your merit the strongest, who loves you most devotedly, that has the best right to a return._ — **Mansfield Park, Vol. III Ch. III**

_You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope... Dare not say that man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death. I have loved none but you. Unjust I may have been, weak and resentful I have been, but never inconstant... For you alone I think and plan._ **—Persuasion, Ch. 23** (needed to include a bit more phrases just to emphasize how fitting it is to describe Crowley's love for Aziraphale. I'll never quite get over how deeply moving this novel was)

_As a friend!... Emma, that I fear is a word... I cannot make speeches... If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more. —_ **Emma, Ch. 49** (personal favourite, and highly recommended! Side note, I also feel that while Aziraphale would always favour Persuasion, this would be more Crowley's favourite, with his preference for 'the funny ones' and all)

**Author's Note:**

> 4/24 - Made a few changes to the last scene, as well as minor edits all over the fic correcting typos and changing word choice. This is what you get when you post unbeta-ed work after sitting down to a first draft having had no sleep for the past 24 hours.
> 
> Thank you for reading! You can follow me on twitter https://twitter.com/aziraphaleann


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